


That Black Forest

by Quillori



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms, Rotkäppchen | Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:05:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/pseuds/Quillori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly, for I've four and twenty blackbirds, all baked in a pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Black Forest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kassidy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kassidy/gifts).



She was a pleasant looking old woman, white haired and red cheeked, and it was a somewhat incongruous sight, seeing her bustling round her neat little house in the midst of the dark woods; incongruous, but something of a relief, for it was hard to walk far in the woods without beginning to look over your shoulder and startle at each small sound. Indeed, too far into the wood, and people stopped looking back, the fear of what they might see even worse than the uncertainty of not knowing. To come unexpectedly on the welcoming little hut, with its smoking chimney and inviting smell of cooking, set in its fenced clearing, chickens scratching around the door, made all the hideous fantasies of the way seem suddenly ridiculous.

Currently she was setting out a hearty lunch for her visitor: bread and stew and local blood-sausage. He was a brawny young man, good looking in his way, and quite new to the area; as he explained, he had come looking for work. Having grown up on the edge of a large town, which had gradually expanded, subsuming the countryside around it, and having no skills beyond his youth and strength, he hadn't been able to make a living. Still, he told her, even he found the woods eerie, and had been glad to come across her hut. But did she live alone out here, without help? Surely she must have someone to do some of the work for her?

“It’s good of you to trouble yourself over me,” she said. “But I’ve always lived out here, and I do very well for myself. Still, it does me good to have visitors – the villagers are all afraid to come. They think the woods full of dangers, from beasts to were-wolves to ogres. Now eat up heartily; a young man like you must have a good appetite.”

And it seemed the young man did. He ate up the stew, and the bread, and the sausage, and when she offered a second helping, he ate that eagerly too. Indeed, he found he was starving, quite ravenously hungry, and the meal tasted as though it was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten. Even the third serving, when he was already stuffed full, was too enticing to resist, and he gulped it down too. Finally, the meal was finished, although he forgot his manners so far as to lick the plate clean.

The old woman nodded approvingly. “That’s what I like to see. And now you will stay here and rest. Let me prepare a place for you.”

To this the young man gratefully agreed – he felt a little sick from having eaten so much, and somehow the stew had an unpleasant aftertaste, so he was glad to lie down for a few minutes in the old woman’s bed. It was quite peaceful watching her move around the hut, cleaning up lunch and beginning to prepare dinner, sharpening her knives and building up the fire. Only the buzzing of the flies as they danced found the cured meats in the rafters was annoying, constantly drawing his attention and making him feel dizzy.

After a while, it occurred to him there was a sickly, rotten smell coming from the meat, which in any case looked raw and bloody, not cured as he had thought. It didn’t seem right, not at all, but when he pulled himself together and tried to get up to examine it, to see if he eyes were playing tricks, he found he couldn’t stand, and slumped back on the bed, panting.

It seemed to him as though the whole hut were tilting, jerking forward, as though it had got up on legs and was walking around, and he had the sudden ridiculous thought that perhaps the chickens had picked it up and made off with it.

The old woman came over and sat companionably by him, still sharpening one of her knives. “I expect you’re wondering what’s for dinner? I was thinking something quite special: fresh were-wolf meat.”

The young man found his gaze straying repeatedly to the knife, but he gave a shaky laugh, and tried to sound unconcerned as he said, “you know I’m not a were-wolf, right? They don’t actually exist. I’m a woodcutter. I told you.”

“Many things exist you don’t know about. As to what you are: you’ve eaten my food now, and will be whatever I say. And why shouldn’t I call you a wolf if I choose? Look at what it was you ate.”

And looking up into the rafters, he saw the sides of meat, and as you recognise something in a dream, or as you form a picture from clouds, he knew as he looked that they were human: flanks and thighs and breasts, covered with congealed blood and flies, and even a little human hand, white and girlish, with one finger gnawed off.


End file.
